On the Edge of the War Zone by Mildred Aldrich

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it is heated by a big stove. Naturally it gets more sick and slightlywounded than serious cases, but the boys seem very happy, andthey are affectionately cared for. There is a big court for theconvalescents, and in the spring they will have the run of the park.

About the twelfth we had a couple of days of the worst cannonadingsince October. It was very trying. I stood hours on the lawn listening,but it was not for several days that we knew there had been a terriblebattle at Soissons, just forty miles north of us.

There is a great difference of opinion as to how far we can hear thebig guns, but an officer on the train the other day assured me thatthey could be heard, the wind being right, about one hundredkilometres--that is to say, eighty miles--so you can judge what it waslike here, on the top of the hill, half that distance away by road, andconsiderably less in a direct line.

Our official communique, as usual, gave us no details, but one of theboys in our town was wounded, and is in a near-by ambulance,where he has been seen by his mother; she brings back word that itwas, as he called it, "a bloody slaughter in a hand-to-hand fight." Butof course, nothing so far has been comparable to the British stand atYpres. The little that leaks slowly out regarding that simply makesone's heart ache with the pain of it, only to rebound with the glory.

Human nature is a wonderful thing, and the locking of the gate toCalais, by the English, will, I imagine, be, to the end of time, one ofthe epics, not of this war alone, but of all war. Talk about the "thin redline." The English stood, we are told, like a ribbon to stop the Germanhordes,--and stopped them.

It almost seems a pity that, up to date, so much secrecy has beenmaintained. I was told last week in Paris that London has as yet nodream of the marvellous feat her volunteer army achieved--a feat thatthrows into the shade all the heroic defenses sung in the verse ofancient times. Luckily these achievements do not dull with years.

On top of the Soissons affair came its result: the French retreatacross the Aisne caused by the rising of the floods which carriedaway the bridges as fast as the engineers could build them, and cutoff part of the French, even an ambulance, and, report says, the menleft across the river without ammunition fought at the end with thebutts of their broken guns, and finally with their fists.

Of course this brings again that awful cry over the lack of preparation,and lack of ammunition.

It is a foolish cry today, since the only nation in the world ready forthis war was the nation that planned and began it.

Even this disaster--and there is no denying that it is one--does notdaunt these wonderful people. They still see two things, the Germansdid not get to Paris, nor have they got to Calais, so, in spite of theirreal feats of arms--one cannot deny those--an endeavor must bejudged by its purpose, and, so judged, the Germans have, thus far,failed. Luckily the French race is big enough to see this and takeheart of grace. God knows it needs to, and thank Him it can.

Don't you imagine that I am a bit down. I am not. I am cold. But, whenI think of the discomfort in the hurriedly constructed trenches, wherethe men are in the water to their ankles, what does my being cold in ahouse mean? Just a record of discomfort as my part of the war, and itseems, day after day, less important. But oh, the monotony andboredom of it! Do you wonder that I want to hibernate?

X

March 23, 1915

Can it be possible that it is two months since I wrote to you? I couldnot realize it when I got your reproachful letter this morning. But Ilooked in my letter-book, and found that it was true.

The truth is--I have nothing to write about. The winter and itsdiscomforts do not inspire me any more than the news from the frontdoes, and no need to tell you that does not make one talkative.

It has been a damp and nasty and changeable winter--one of themost horrid I ever experienced. There has been almost no snow.Almost never has the ground frozen, and not only is there mud, mudeverywhere, but freshets also. Today the Marne lies more like anopen sea than a river across the fields in the valley. One can imaginewhat it is like out there in the trenches.

We have occasional lovely sunny days, when it is warmer out-of-doors than in--and when those days came, I dug a bit in the dirt,planted tulips and sweet peas.

Sometimes I have managed to get fuel, and when that happened, Iwas ever so cosy in the house. Usually, when the weather was at itsworst, I had none, and was as nicely uncomfortable as my worstenemy could ask.

As a rule my days have been divided into two parts. In the forenoon Ihave hovered about the gate watching for the newspaper. In theafternoon I have re-chewed the news in the vain endeavor to extractsomething encouraging between the lines,--and failed. Up to date Ihave not found anything tangible to account for such hope ascontinues to "spring eternal" in all our breasts. It springs, however,the powers be thanked. At present it is as big an asset as Francehas.

A Zeppelin got to Paris last night. We are sorry, but we'll forget it assoon as the women and children are buried. We are sorry, but it is notimportant.

Things are a bit livened up here. Day before yesterday a regiment ofdragoons arrived. They are billeted for three months. They are menfrom the midi, and, alas! none too popular at this moment. Still, theyhave been well received, and their presence does liven up the place.This morning, before I was up, I heard the horses trotting by for theirmorning exercise, and got out of bed to watch them going along thehill. After the deadly tiresome waiting silence that has reigned here allwinter, it made the hillside look like another place.

Add to that the fact that the field work has begun, and that, when thesun shines, I can go out on the lawn and watch the ploughs turningup the ground, and see the winter grain making green patcheseverywhere--and I do not need to tell you that, with the spring, mythoughts will take a livelier turn. The country is beginning to lookbeautiful. I took my drive along the valley of the Grande Morin in theafternoon yesterday. The wide plains of the valley are beingploughed, and the big horses dragging ploughs across the wide fieldsdid look lovely--just like a Millet or a Daubigny canvas.

Since I wrote you I have been across to the battlefield again, toaccompany a friend who came out from Paris. It was all like a newpicture. The grain is beginning to sprout in tender green about thegraves, which have been put in even better order than when I firstsaw them. The rude crosses of wood, from which the bark had noteven been stripped, have been replaced by tall, carefully madecrosses painted white, each marked with a name and number. Eachsingle grave and each group of graves has a narrow footpath aboutit, and is surrounded by a wire barrier, while tiny approaches arearranged to each. Everywhere military signs are placed, remindingvisitors that these fields are private property, that they are all planted,and entreating all politely to conduct themselves accordingly, whichmeans literally, "keep off the wheat."

The German graves, which, so far as I remember, were unmarkedwhen I was out there nearly four months ago, have now black diskswith the number in white.

You must not mind if I am dull these days. I have been studying amap of the battle-front, which I got by accident. It is not inspiring. Itmakes one realize what there is ahead of us to do. It will be done--butat what a price!

Still, spring is here, and in spite of one's self, it helps.

XI

May 18, 1915

All through the month of April I intended to write, but I had not thecourage.

All our eyes were turned to the north where, from April 22 toThursday, May 13--five days ago--we knew the second awful battle atYpres was going on. It seems to be over now.

What with the new war deviltry, asphyxiating gas--with which thebattle began, and which beat back the line for miles by the terror of itssurprise--and the destruction of the Lusitania on the 7th, it has been ahard month. It has been a month which has seen a strange changeof spirit here.

I have tried to impress on you, from the beginning, that odd sort ofoptimism which has ruled all the people about me, even under themost trying episodes of the war. Up to now, the hatred of theGermans has been, in a certain sense, impersonal. It has been aracial hatred of a natural foe, an accepted evil, just as the uncalled-forwar was. It had wrought a strange, unexpected, altogetherremarkable change in the French people. Their faces had becomemore serious, their bearing more heroic, their laughter less frequent,and their humor more biting. But, on the day, three weeks ago, whenthe news came of the first gas attack, before which the Zouaves andthe Turcos fled with blackened faces and frothing lips, leavinghundreds of their companions dead and disfigured on the road toLangtmarck, there arose the first signs of awful hatred that I hadseen.

I frankly acknowledge that, considering the kind of warfare the worldis seeing today, I doubt very much if it is worse to be asphyxiatedthan to be blown to pieces by an obus. But this new and devilish armwhich Germany has added to the horrors of war seemed the laststraw, and within a few weeks, I have seen grow up among thesesimple people the conviction that the race which planned andlaunched this great war has lost the very right to live; and that none ofthe dreams of the world which looked towards happiness can ever berealized while Prussia exists, even if the war lasts twenty years, andeven if, before it is over, the whole world has to take a hand in it.

Into this feeling, ten days ago, came the news of the destruction ofthe Lusitania.

We got the news here on the 8th. It struck me dumb.

For two or three days I kept quietly in the house. I believe the peopleabout me expected the States to declare war in twenty-four hours. Myneighbors who passed the gate looked at me curiously as theygreeted me, and with less cordiality as the days went by. It was as ifthey pitied me, and yet did not want to be hard on me, or hold meresponsible.

You know well enough how I feel about these things. I have nosentimentality about the war. A person who had that, and tried to livehere so near it, would be on the straight road to madness. If the worldcannot stop war, if organized governments cannot arrive at a code ofmorals which applies to nations the same law of right and wrongwhich is enforced on individuals, why, the world and humanity musttake the consequences, and must reconcile themselves to the beliefthat such wars as this are as necessary as surgical operations. If oneaccepts that point of view--and I am ready to do so,--then everydiabolical act of Germany will rebound to the future good of the race,as it, from every point of view, justifies the hatred which is growing upagainst Germany. We are taught that it is right, moral, and, fromevery point of view, necessary to hate evil, and, in this 20th century,Germany is the most absolute synonym of evil that history has everseen. Having stated that fact, it does not seem to me that I need sayanything further on the subject.

In the meantime, I have gone on imitating the people about me. Theyare industriously tilling their fields. I continue cutting my lawn,planting my dahlias, pruning my roses, tying up my flowering peas,and watching my California poppies grow like the weeds in the fields.

When I am not doing that, with a pot in one hand, and the tongs inthe other, I am picking slugs out of the flower-beds and giving them adose of boiling water, or lugging about a watering-pot. I do itenergetically, but my heart is not in it, though the garden is grateful allthe same, and is as nice a symbol of the French people as I canimagine.

We have the dragoons still with us. They don't interest me hugely--notas the English did when they retreated here last September, nor asthe French infantry did on their way to the battlefield. These menhave never been in action yet. Still they lend a picturesqueness to thecountryside, though to me it is, as so much of the war has been, toomuch like the decor of a drama. Every morning they ride by the gate,two abreast, to exercise their lovely horses, and just before noon theycome back. All the afternoon they are passing in groups, smoking,chatting, and laughing, and, except for their uniforms, they do notsuggest war, of which they actually know as little as I do.

After dinner, in the twilight, for the days are getting long, and themoon is full, I sit on the lawn and listen to them singing in the street atVoisins, and they sing wonderfully well, and they sing good music.The other evening they sang choruses from "Louise" and "Faust,"and a wonderful baritone sang "Vision Fugitive." The air was so stilland clear that I hardly missed a note.

A week ago tonight we were aroused late in the evening, it must havebeen nearly midnight, by an alerte announcing the passing of aZeppelin. I got up and went out-of-doors, but neither heard nor sawanything, except a bicycle going over the hill, and a voice calling"Lights out." Evidently it did not get to Paris, as the papers have beenabsolutely dumb.

One thing I have done this week. When the war began I bought, asdid nearly everyone else, a big map of Germany and the battle-frontssurrounding it, and little envelopes of tiny British, Belgian, French,Montenegrin, Servian, Russian, German, and Austrian flags,mounted on pins. Every day, until the end of last week, I used to putthe flags in place as well as I could after studying the day'scommunique.

I began to get discouraged in the hard days of last month, when dayafter day I was obliged to retreat the Allied flags on the frontier, andwhen the Russian offensive fell down, I simply tore the map off thewall, and burned it, flags and all.

Of course I said to myself, in the spirit I have caught from the army,"All these things are but incidents, and will have no effect on the finalresult. A nation is not defeated while its army is still standing up in itsboots, so it is folly to bother over details."

Do you ever wonder what the poets of the future will do with this war?Is it too stupendous for them, or, when they get it in perspective, canthey find the inspiration for words where now we have only tightenedthroats and a great pride that, in an age set down as commercial,such deeds of heroism could be?

Who will sing the dirge of General Hamilton in the little cemetery ofLacouture last October, when the farewell salute over his grave wasturned to repel a German attack, while the voice of the priest kept on,calm and clear, to the end of the service? Who will sing thedestruction of the Royal Scots, two weeks later, in the battle ofYpres? Who will sing the arrival of General Moussy, and of theFrench corps on the last day of that first battle of Ypres, when amotley gathering of cooks and laborers with staff officers anddismounted cavalry, in shining helmets, flung themselves pellmell intoa bayonet charge with no bayonets, to relieve the hard-pressedEnglish division under General Bulfin? And did it. Who will sing thegreat chant in honor of the 100,000 who held Ypres against half amillion, and locked the door to the Channel? Who will sing the bulldogfighting qualities of Rawlinson's 7th division, which held the line inthose October days until reinforcements came, and which, at the endof the fight, mustered 44 officers out of 400, and only 2336 men outof 23,000? Who will sing the stirring scene of the French Chasseurs,advancing with bugles and shouting the "Marseillaise," to storm andtake the col de Bonhomme in a style of warfare as old as Frenchhistory? And these are but single exploits in a war now settled downto sullen, dull trench work, a war only in the early months of whatlooks like years of duration.

Doesn't it all make your blood flow fast? You see it tempts me tomake an oration. You must overlook my eloquence! One does--overhere, in the midst of it--feel such a reverence for human nature today.The spirit of heroism and self-sacrifice lives still amongst us. A worldof machinery has not yet made a race incapable of greatness. I havea feeling that from the soil to which so many thousands of men havevoluntarily returned to save their country's honor must spring up aFrance greater than ever. It is the old story of Atlas. Besides, "Whatmore can a man do"--you know the rest. It is one of the things thatmake me sorry to feel that our own country is evidently going to avoida movement which might have been at once healthy and uplifting. Iknow that you don't like me to say that, but I'll let it go.

XII

June 1, 1915

Well, I have really had a very exciting time since I last wrote you. Ihave even had a caller. Also my neighbor at Voulangis, on the top ofthe hill, on the other side of the Morin, has returned from the States,to which she fled just before the Battle of the Marne. I even went toParis to meet her. To tell you the actual truth, for a few days, Ibehaved exactly as if there were no war. I had to pinch myself nowand then to remind myself that whatever else might be real or unreal,the war was very actual.

I must own that Paris seems to get farther and farther from it everyday. From daybreak to sunset I found it hard to realize that it was thecapital of an invaded country fighting for its very existence, and theinvader no farther from the Boulevards than Noyon, Soissons, andRheims--on a battle-front that has not changed more than an inch ortwo--and often an inch or two in the wrong direction--since lastOctober.

I could not help thinking, as I rode up the Champs-Elysees in the sun--it was Sunday--how humiliated the Kaiser, that crowned head ofTerrorizers, would be if he could have seen Paris that day.

Children were playing under the trees of the broad mall; automobileswere rushing up and down the avenue; crowds were sitting all alongthe way, watching the passers and chatting; all the big hotels, turnedinto ambulances, had their windows open to the glorious sunnywarmth, and the balconies were crowded with invalid soldiers andwhite-garbed nurses; not even arms in slings or heads in bandageslooked sad, for everyone seemed to be laughing; nor did the crippledsoldiers, walking slowly along, add a tragic note to the wonderfulscene.

It was strange--it was more than strange. It seemed to me almostunbelievable.

I could not help asking myself if it could last.

Every automobile which passed had at least one soldier in it. Almostevery well-dressed woman had a soldier beside her. Those who didnot, looked sympathetically at every soldier who passed, and nowand then stopped to chat with the groups--soldiers on crutches,soldiers with canes, soldiers with an arm in a sling, or an emptysleeve, leading the blind, and soldiers with nothing of their facesvisible but the eyes.

By every law I knew the scene should have been sad. But some lawof love and sunshine had decreed that it should not be, and it wasnot.

It was not the Paris you saw, even last summer, but it was Paris witha soul, and I know no better prayer to put up than the cry that thewave of love which seemed to throb everywhere about the soldierboys, and which they seemed to feel and respond to, might not--withtime--die down. I knew it was too much to ask of human nature. I wasglad I had seen it.

In this atmosphere of love Paris looked more beautiful to me thanever. The fountains were playing in the Place de la Concorde, in theTuileries gardens, at the Rond Point, and the gardens, the Avenueand the ambulances were bright with flowers. I just felt, as I always dowhen the sun shines on that wonderful vista from the Arc deTriomphe to the Louvre, that nowhere in the world was there anothersuch picture, unless it be the vista from the Louvre to the Arc deTriomphe. When I drove back up the hill at sunset, with a light mistveiling the sun through the arch, I felt so grateful to the fate which haddecreed that never again should the German army look on thatscene, and that a nation which had a capital that could smile in theface of fate as Paris smiled that day, must not, cannot, be conquered.

Of course after dark it is all different. It is then that one realizes thatParis is changed. The streets are no longer brilliantly lighted. Thereare no social functions. The city seems almost deserted. One missesthe brightness and the activity. I really found it hard to find my wayabout and recognize familiar street corners in the dark. A few days ofit were enough for me, and I was glad enough to come back to myquiet hilltop. At my age habits are strong.

Also let me tell you things are slowly changing here. Little by little Ican feel conditions closing up about me, and I can see "comingevents" casting "their shadows before."

Let me give you a little example.

A week ago today my New York doctor came down to spend a fewdays with me. It was a great event for a lady who had not had a visitorfor months. He wanted to go out to the battlefield, so I arranged tomeet his train at Esbly, go on with him to Meaux, and drive back byroad.

I started for Esbly in my usual sans gene manner, and was disgustedwith myself on arriving to discover that I had left all my papers athome. However, as I had never had to show them, I imagined itwould make no difference.

I presented myself at the ticket-office to buy a ticket for Meaux, andyou can imagine my chagrin when I was asked for my papers. Iexplained to the station-master, who knows me, that I had left them athome. He was very much distressed,--said he would take theresponsibility of selling me a ticket if I wanted to risk it,--but the neworders were strict, and he was certain I would not be allowed to leavethe station at Meaux.

Naturally, I did not want to take such a risk, or to appear, in any way,not to be en regle. So I took the doctor off the train, and drove backhere for my papers, and then we went on to Meaux by road.

It was lucky I did, for I found everything changed at Meaux. In the firstplace, we could not have an automobile, as General Joffre hadissued an order forbidding the circulation inside of the military zone ofall automobiles except those connected with the army. We couldhave a little victoria and a horse, but before taking that, we had to goto the Prefet de Police and exhibit our papers and get a special sauf-conduit,--and we had to be diplomatic to get that.

Once started, instead of sliding out of the town past a guard whomerely went through the formality of looking at the driver's papers, wefound, on arriving at the entrance into the route de Senlis, that theroad was closed with a barricade, and only one carriage could passat a time. In the opening stood a soldier barring the way with his gun,and an officer came to the carriage and examined all our papersbefore the sentinel shouldered his musket and let us pass. We werestopped at all the cross-roads, and at that between Barcy andChambry,--where the pedestal of the monument to mark the limit ofthe battle in the direction of Paris is already in place,--we found agroup of a dozen officers--not noncommissioned officers, if youplease, but captains and majors. There our papers, includingAmerican passports, were not only examined, but signatures andseals verified.

This did not trouble me a bit. Indeed I felt it well, and high time, andthat it should have been done ten months ago.

It was a perfect day, and the battlefield was simply beautiful, with thegrain well up, and people moving across it in all directions. Thesewere mostly people walking out from Meaux, and soldiers from thebig hospital there making a pilgrimage to the graves of theircomrades. What made the scene particularly touching was thenumber of children, and the nurses pushing babies in their carriages.It seemed to me such a pretty idea to think of little children roamingabout this battlefield as if it were a garden. I could not help wishingthe nation was rich enough to make this place a public park.

In spite of only having a horse we made the trip easily, and got backhere by dinner-time.

Two days later we had an exciting five minutes.

It was breakfast time. The doctor and I were taking our coffee out-of-doors, on the north side of the house, in the, shade of the ivy-cladwall of the old grange. There the solitude is perfect. No one could seeus there. We could only see the roofs of the few houses atJoncheroy, and beyond them the wide amphitheatre-like panorama,with the square towers of the cathedral of Meaux at the east andEsbly at the west, and Mareuil-les-Meaux nestled on the river in theforeground.

You see I am looking at my panorama again. One can get used toanything, I find.

It was about nine o'clock.

Suddenly there was a terrible explosion, which brought both of us toour feet, for it shook the very ground beneath us. We looked in thedirection from which it seemed to come--Meaux--and we saw acolumn of smoke rising in the vicinity of Mareuil--only two miles away.Before we had time to say a word we saw a second puff, and thencame a second explosion, then a third and a fourth. I was just rootedto my spot, until Amelie dashed out of the kitchen, and then we all ranto the hedge,--it was only a hundred feet or so nearer the smoke, andwe could see women running in the fields,--that was all.

But Amelie could not remain long in ignorance like that. There was astaff officer cantoned at Voisins and he had telephoniccommunication with Meaux, so down the hill she went in search ofnews, and fifteen minutes later we knew that a number of Taubes hadtried to reach Paris in the night, that there had been a battle in the airat Crepy-les-Valois, and one of these machines had dropped fourbombs, evidently meant for Meaux, near Mareuil, where they hadfallen in the fields and harmed no one.

We never got any explanation of how it happened that a Taubeshould be flying over us at that hour, in broad daylight, or whatbecame of it afterward. Probably someone knows. If someone does,he is evidently not telling us.

Amelie's remark, as she returned to her kitchen, was: "Well, it wasnearer than the battle. Perhaps next time--" She shrugged hershoulders, and we all laughed, and life went on as usual. Well, I'veheard the whir-r of a German bomb, even if I did not see the machinethat threw it.

The doctor did not get over laughing until he went back to Paris. I amafraid he never will get over guying me about the shows I get up toamuse my visitors. I expect that I must keep a controlling influenceover him, or, before he is done joking, the invisible Taube will turn intoa Zeppelin, or perhaps a fleet of airships.

XIII

June 20, 1915

Having an American neighbor near by again has changed life morethan you would imagine.

She is only five miles away. She can come over on horseback in halfan hour, and she often arrives for coffee, which is really jolly. Nowand then she drives over unexpectedly, and carries me back with herfor the night. I never feel like staying longer, but it changes thecomplexion of life. Besides, we can talk about our native land--inEnglish--and that is a change.

Now don't imagine that I have been lonely. I have not. I was quitecontented before she returned, but I have never concealed from youthat the war is trying. I needed, now and then, to exchange wordswith one of my own race, and to say things about my own countrywhich I'd be burned at the stake before I 'd say before a Frenchperson.

Beside, the drive from here to Voulangis is beautiful. We have threeor four ways to go, and each one is prettier than the other.Sometimes we go through Quincy, by the Chateau de Moulignon, toPont aux Dames, and through the old moated town of Crecy-en-Brie.Sometimes we go down the valley of the Mesnil, a hilly path along theedge of a tiny river, down which we dash at a breakneck speed, onlypossible to an expert driver. Indeed Pere never believes we do it. Hecould not. Since he could not, to him it is impossible to anyone.

Just now the most interesting way is through Couilly and St. Germain,by the Bois de Misere, to Villiers-sur-Morin, whence we climb the hillto Voulangis, with the valley dropping away on one side. It is one ofthe loveliest drives I know, along the Morin, by the mills, through thealmost virgin forest.

The artillery--territorials--is cantoned all along here, at Villiers, atCrecy, and at Voulangis. The road is lined with grey cannon andammunition wagons. Every little way there is a sentinel in his box, andhorses are everywhere.

Some of the sentinel boxes are, as we used to say in the States, "toocute for words." The prettiest one in the Department is right here, atthe corner of the route Madame, which crosses my hill, and whencethe road leads from the Demi-Lune right down to the canal. It iswoven of straw, has a nice floor, a Gothic roof, a Gothic door, and thetiniest Gothic window, and a little flag floating from its peak.

It is a little bijou, and I did hope that I could beg, borrow, steal,or buy it from the dragoon who made it. But I can't. The lieutenantis attached to it, and is going to take it with him, alas!

I happened to be at Voulangis when the territorials left--quiteunexpectedly, as usual. They never get much notice of a releve.

We were sitting in the garden at tea when the assemblage generalwas sounded, and the order read to march at four next morning.

You never saw such a bustle,--such a cleaning of boots, such apacking of sacks, such a getting together of the officers' canteens--orderlies getting about quickly, and trying to give demonstrations of"efficiency" (how I detest the very word!), and such a rounding up oflast things for the commissary department, including a mobilization ofBrie cheese (this is its home), and such a pulling into position ofcannon--all the inevitable activity of a regiment preparing to take theroad, after a two months' cantonnement, in absolute ignorance of thedirection they were to take, or their destination.

The last thing I saw that night was-the light of their lanterns, and thelast thing I heard was the march of their hob-nailed boots. The firstthing I heard in the morning, just as day broke, was the neighing ofthe horses, and the subdued voices of the men as the teams wereharnessed.

We had all agreed to get up to see them start. It seemed the least wecould do. So, well wrapped up in our big coats, against the chill of fouro'clock, we went to the little square in front of the church, from whichthey were to start, and where the long line of grey cannon, greyammunition, camions, grey commissary wagons were ready, and themen, sac au dos, already climbing into place--one mounted on eachteam of four horses, three on each gun-carriage, facing the horses,with three behind, with their backs to the team. The horses of theofficers were waiting in front of the little inn opposite, from which theofficers emerged one by one, mounted and rode to a place in front ofthe church. We were a little group of about twenty women andchildren standing on one side of the square, and a dead silence hungover the scene. The men, even, spoke in whispers.

The commander, in front of his staff, ran his eyes slowly over the line,until a sous-officier approached, saluted, and announced, "All ready,"when the commander rode to the head of the line, raised one handabove his head, and with it made a sharp forward gesture--theunspoken order "en avant"--and backed his horse, and the long greyline began to move slowly towards the Foret de Crecy, the officersfalling into place as it passed.

Some of the men leaned down to shake hands as they went by,some of the men saluted, not a word was spoken, and the silencewas only broken by the tramp of the horses, the straining of theharnesses, and rumble of the wheels.

It was all so different--as everything in this war has been--fromanything I had ever dreamed when I imagined war. Yet I suppose thatthe future dramatist who uses this period as a background can get hiseffects just the same, without greatly falsifying the truth. You know Iam like Uncle Sarcey--a really model theatre audience. No effect,halfway good, passes me by. So, as I turned back at the garden gateto watch the long grey line winding slowly into the forest, I found that Ihad the same chill down my back and the same tightness over myeyes and in my throat, which, in the real theatre-goers, announce thatan effect has "gone home."

The only other thing I have done this month which could interest youwas to have a little tea-party on the lawn for the convalescent boys ofour ambulance, who were "personally conducted" by one of theirnurses.

Of course they were all sorts and all classes. When I got themgrouped round the table, in the shade of the big clump of lilac bushes,I was impressed, as I always am when I see a number of commonsoldiers together, with the fact that no other race has such intelligent,such really well-modelled faces, as the French. It is rare to see a fatface among them. There were farmers, blacksmiths, casters,workmen of all sorts, and there was one young law student, and themixed group seemed to have a real sentiment of fraternity.

Of course, the law student was more accustomed to society than theothers, and became, naturally, a sort of leader. He knew just what todo, and just how to do it,--how to get into the salon when he arrived,and how to greet his hostess. But the rest knew how to follow suit,and did it, and, though some of them were a little shy at first, not onewas confused, and in a few minutes they were all quite at their ease.By the time the brief formality of being received was over, and theywere all gathered round the tea-table, the atmosphere had becomecomfortable and friendly, and, though they let the law student lead theconversation, they were all alert and interested, and when one ofthem did speak, it was to the point.

When tea was over and we walked out on the lawn on the north sideof the house to look over the field of the battle in which most of themhad taken part, they were all ready to talk--they were on ground theyknew. One of them asked me if I could see any of the movements ofthe armies, and I told him that I could not, that I could only see thesmoke, and hear the artillery fire, and now and then, when the windwas right, the sharp repeating fire of rifles as well as mitrailleuses,and that I ended by distinguishing the soixante-quinze from otherartillery guns.

"Look down there, in the wide plain below Montyon," said the lawstudent. I looked, and he added, "As nearly as I can judge the groundfrom here, if you had been looking there at eleven o'clock in themorning, you would have seen a big movement of troops."

Of course I explained to him that I had not expected any movement inthat direction, and had only watched the approach from Meaux.

Beyond that one incident, these wounded soldiers said no word aboutbattles. Most of the conversation was political.

When the nurse looked at her watch and said it was time to return tothe hospital, as they must not be late for dinner, they all rose. The lawstudent came, cap in hand, made me a low bow, and thanked me fora pleasant afternoon, and every man imitated his manner--withvarying degrees of success--and made his little speech and bow, andthen they marched up the road, turning back, as the English soldiershad done--how long ago it seems--to wave their caps as they wentround the corner.

I did wish that you could have been there. You always used to lovethe French. You would have loved them more that afternoon.

It is wonderful how these people keep up their courage. To me itseems like the uplift of a Holy Cause. They did expect a big summeroffensive. But it does not come, and we hear it rumored that, while wehave men enough, the Germans have worked so hard, while theEnglish were recruiting, that they are almost impregnably entrenched,and that while their ammunition surpasses anything we can have formonths yet, it would be military suicide to throw our infantry againsttheir superior guns. In the meantime, while the Allies are working likemad to increase their artillery equipments, the Germans are workingjust as hard, and Time serves one party as well as the other. Isuppose it will only be after the war that we shall really know to whatour disappointment was due, and, as usual, the same cry consolesus all: "None of these things will change the final result!" and mostpeople keep silent under the growing conviction that this "may go onfor years."

One thing I really must tell you--not a person mentioned the Lusitaniaat the tea-party, which was, I suppose, a handsome effort atreticence, since the lady of the house was an American, and theStars and Stripes, in little, were fluttering over the chimney.

I take note of one remark in your last letter, in reply to mine of May18. You twit me with "rounding off my periods." I apologize. You mustremember that I earned my bread and salt doing that for years, andhabit is strong. I no longer do it with my tongue in my cheek. My wordfor that.

XIV

August 1, 1915

Well, dear girl, not a bit of news to tell you. I have really done nothingthis last month but look at my flowers, superintend the gathering ofmy plums, put up a few pots of confiture, mow the lawn, and listen tothe guns, now and then, read the communiques, and sigh over thedisasters in the east and the deadlock at Gallipoli.

At the end of the first year of the war the scene has stretched out sotremendously that my poor tired brain can hardly take it in. I supposeit is all clear to the general staff, but I don't know. To me it all lookslike a great labyrinth,--and the Germans are at the gates of Warsaw.Of course this does not "alter the final result"--when that comes--but itmeans more destruction, more land to win back, and, I imagine, suchdesolation in Poland as makes even the Belgian disaster look, bycomparison, small.

Oddly enough, while we know that this will brace up the Germans,fighting all about their borders on invaded territory, it does not effectthe faith of the people here, who have even the courage to turn asidefrom their own grief, with tears in their eyes, to pity Poland. What aprice Belgium pays for her courage to be honorable, and at what aprice Poland must accept her independence! Everyone is philosophicalhere, but one does not have to be heartless to be that.

I find it ironical that my flowers bloom, that gay humming-birds hoverover my Mas de Perse, that I have enough to eat, that sleep comesto me, and that the country is so beautiful.

Our dragoons have ridden away--on to the front, I am told, andsilence has settled down on us.

I am well--there ends the history of a month, and I am not the onlyone in France leading a life like that,--and still the cannon arepounding on in the distance.

XV

August 6, 1915

Well, the sans gene days seem to be passed.

Up to now, as I have told you, the sauf-conduit matter, except on thelast day I was at Meaux, was the thinnest sort of formality. I had tohave one to leave the commune, but the blank forms were lyingaround everywhere. I had only to stop at the hotel at Couilly, step intothe cafe, pick up a form and ask the proprietor to fill it out, and thatwas all that was necessary. I might have passed it on to anyone, for,although my name was written on it, no one ever took the trouble tofill out the description. The ticket-seller at the station merely glancedat the paper in my hand when I bought a ticket, and the gendarmes atthe ticket window in Paris, when there were any,--often there werenone--did no more. Of course, the possession of a sauf-conduitpresupposes all one's papers en regle, but I never saw anyoneexamining to make sure of that.

All this is ended. We are evidently under a new regime.

I had my first intimation yesterday, when I had a domiciliary visit fromthe gendarmes at Esbly. It was a very formal, thorough affair, the twoofficers treating me, at the beginning of the interview, as if I were avery guilty person.

I was upstairs when I saw them arrive on their wheels. I put down mysewing, and went down to be ready to open the door when theyknocked. They didn't knock. I waited a bit, then opened the door.There was no one on the terrace, but I heard their voices from theother side of the house. I went in search of them. They wereexamining the back of the house as if they had never seen one like itbefore. When they saw me, one of them said sharply, without theslightest salute: "There is no bell?"

I acknowledged the self-evident fact.

"How does one get in, since you keep your door locked?" he added.

"Well," I replied, with a smile, "as a rule, one knocks."

To that his only reply was: "Your name?"

I gave it to him.

He looked on his paper, repeated it--mispronouncing it, of course,and evidently sure that I did not know how to pronounce it myself.

"Foreigner," he stated.

I could not deny the charge. I merely volunteered "Americaine."

Then the inquiry continued like this. "Live here?"

"Evidently."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Since June, 1914."

That seemed to strike him as a very suspicious date, and he stared atme hard for a moment before he went on: "What for?"

"Principally because I leased the house."

"Why do you remain here in war-time?"

"Because I have nowhere else to go," and I tried not to smile.

"Why don't you go home?"

"This is my home."

"Haven't you any home in America?"

I resisted telling him that it was none of his business, and did my bestto look pathetic--it was that, or laugh--as I answered: "Alas! I havenot."

This seemed to strike both of them as unbelievable, and they onlystared at me as if trying to put me out of countenance.

In the meantime, some of the people of Huiry, interested always ingendarmes, were standing at the top of the hill watching the scene,so I said: "Suppose you come inside and I will answer your questionsthere," and I opened the door of the salon, and went in.

They hesitated a moment, but decided to follow me. They stood, verystiffly, just inside the door, looking about with curiosity. I sat down atmy desk, and made a motion to them to be seated. I did not knowwhether or not it was correct to ask gendarmes to sit down, but Iventured it. Evidently it was not correct, for they paid no attention tomy gesture.

When they were done looking about, they asked me for my papers.

I produced my American passport. They looked at the huge steel-engraved document with great seriousness. I am sure they had neverseen one before. It impressed them--as well it might, in comparisonwith the civil papers of the French government.

They satisfied themselves that the picture affixed was really I--that thename agreed with that on their books. Of course, they could not reada word of it, but they looked wise. Then they asked me for my Frenchpapers. I produced my permis de sejour--permitting me to stay inFrance provided I did not change my residence, and to which wasaffixed the same photograph as that on my passport; my declarationof my civil situation, duly stamped; and my "immatriculation," a leaffrom the register on which all foreigners are written down, just as wewould be if admitted to a hospital or an insane asylum.

The two men put their heads together over these documents--examined the signatures and the seals with great gravity--with evidentregret to find that I was quite en regle.

Finally they permitted me to put the documents all back in the case inwhich I carry them.

I thought the scene was over. Not at all. They waited until I shut thecase, and replaced it in my bag--and then:

"You live alone?" one asked.

I owned that I did.

"But why?"

"Well," I replied, "because I have no family here."

"You have no domestic?"

I explained that I had a femme de menage.

"Where is she?"

I said that at that moment she was probably at Couilly, but thatordinarily when she was not here, she was at her own home.

"Where is that?" was the next question.

So I took them out on to the terrace again, and showed themAmelie's house.

They stared solemnly at it, as if they had never seen it before, andthen one of them turned on me quickly, as if to startle me. "Vous etesune femme de lettres?"

"It is so written down in my papers," I replied.

"Journaliste?"

I denied my old calling without the quiver of an eyelash. I hadn't ascruple. Besides, my old profession many a time failed me, and itmight have been dangerous to have been known as even an ex-journalist today within the zone of military operations.

Upon that followed a series of the most intimate questions anyoneever dared put to me,--my income, my resources, my expectations,my plans, etc.--and all sorts of questions I too rarely put to myselfeven, and never answer to myself. Practically the only question theydid not ask was if I ever intended to marry. I was tempted to volunteerthat information, but, as neither man had the smallest sense ofhumor, I decided it was wiser to let well enough alone.

It was only when they were stumped for another single question thatthey decided to go. They saluted me politely this time, a tribute Iimagine to my having kept my temper under great provocation to loseit, went out of the gate, stood whispering together a few minutes, andgazing back at the house, as if afraid they would forget it, looked upat the plaque on the gate-post, made a note, mounted their wheels,and sprinted down the hill, still in earnest conversation.

I wondered what they were saying to one another. Whatever it was, Igot an order early the next morning to present myself at thegendarmerie at Esbly before eleven o'clock.

Pere was angry. He seemed to feel, that, for some reason, I wasunder suspicion, and that it was a man's business to defend me. So,when Ninette brought my perambulator to the gate, there was Pere,in his veston and casquette, determined to go with me and see methrough.

At Esbly I found a different sort of person--a gentleman--he told mehe was not a gendarme by metier, but a volunteer--and, although heput me through practically the same paces, it was different. He wassympathetic, not averse to a joke, and, when it was over, he went outto help me into my baby cart, thanked me for troubling myself,assured me that I was absolutely en regle, and even went so very faras to say that he was pleased to have met me. So I suppose, until thecommander at Esbly is changed, I shall be left in peace.

This will give you a little idea of what it is like here. I suppose Ineeded to be shaken up a bit to make me realize that I was nearthe war. It is easy to forget it sometimes.

Amelie came this morning with the tale that it was rumored that allforeigners were to be "expelled from the zone des armees." It mightbe. Still, I am not worrying. "Sufficient to the day," you know.

XVI

September 8, 1915

You have the date quite right.

It is a year ago today--this very 8th of September--since I saw theFrench soldiers march away across the hill, over what we call the"Champs Madame"--no one knows why--on their way to the battlebehind Meaux.

By chance--you could not have planned it, since the time it takes aletter to reach me depends on how interesting the censor finds it--your celebration of that event reached me on its anniversary.

You are absolutely wrong, however, to pull such a long face over mysituation. You write as if I had passed through a year of misery. I havenot. I am sure you never got that impression from my letters, and Iassure you that I am writing exactly as I feel--I have no facade up foryou.

I own it has been a year of tension. It has been three hundred andsixty-five days and a fourth, not one of which has been free fromanxiety of some sort or other. Sometimes I have been cold.Sometimes I have been nervous. But all the same, it has been fifty-two weeks of growing respect for the people among whom I live, andof ever-mounting love of life, and never-failing conviction that the sumof it is beauty. I have had to fight for the faith in that, but I have keptit. Always "In the midst of life we are in Death," but not always is deathso fine and beautiful a thing as in these days. No one would choosethat such things as have come to pass in the last year should be, butsince they are, don't be so foolish as to pity me, who have the chanceto look on, near enough to feel and to understand, even though I amfar enough off to be absolutely safe,--alas! eternally a mere spectator.And speaking of having been cold reminds me that it is beginning toget cold again. We have had heavy hailstorms already, hail as bigand hard as dried peas, and I have not as yet been able to get fuel.So I am looking forward to another trying winter. In the spring mycoal-dealer assured me that last winter's situation would not berepeated, and I told him that I would take all the coal he could get me.Having said that, I took no further thought of the matter. Up to date hehas not been able to get any. The railroad is too busy carrying warmaterial.

I was pained by the tone of your last letter. Evidently mine of theFourth of July did not please you. Evidently you don't like my politicsor my philosophy, or my "deadly parallels," or any of my thoughtsabout the present and future of my native land. Destroy the letter.Forget it, and we'll talk of other things, and, to take a big jump--

Did you ever keep cats?

There is a subject in which you can find no offence, and if it does notappeal to you it is your own fault.

If you never have kept cats, you have missed lots of fun, you are nothalf educated, you have not been disciplined at all. / A cat is awonderful animal, but he is not a bit like what, on first making hisacquaintance, you think he is going to be, and he never becomes it.

Now I have been living a year this September with one cat, and partof the time, with two. I am wiser than I used to be. By fits and starts Iam more modest.

I used to think that a cat was a tame animal, who lapped milk, slept,rolled up ornamentally on a rug, now and then chased his tail, andnow and then played gracefully with a ball, came and sat on yourknee when you invited him, and caught mice, if mice came where hewas.

All the cats I had seen in the homes of my friends surely did thosethings. I thought them "so pretty," "so graceful," "so soft," and Ialways said they "gave a cosy look to a room."

But I had never been intimate with a cat.

When the English soldiers were here a year ago, Amelie came onemorning bringing a kitten in her apron. You remember I told you ofthis. He was probably three months old--so Amelie says, and sheknows all about cats. She said off-hand: "C'est un chat du mois dejuin." She seems to know what month well-behaved cats ought to beborn. So far as I know, they might be born in any old month. He waslike a little tiger, with a white face and shirt-front, white paws andlovely green eyes.

He had to have a name, so, as he had a lot of brown, the color of theEnglish uniform, and came to me while the soldiers were here, Inamed him Khaki. He accepted it, and answered to his name atonce. He got well rapidly. His fur began to grow, and so did he.

At first he lived up to my idea of what a kitten should be. He wasalways ready to play, but he had much more originality than I knewcats to have. He was so amusing that I gave lots of time to him. I hadcorks, tied to strings, hanging to all the door knobs and posts in thehouse, and, for hours at a time, he amused himself playing gameslike basket-ball and football with these corks. I lost hours of my lifewatching him, and calling Amelie to "come quick" and see him. Hisingenuity was remarkable. He would take the cork in his front paws,turn over on his back, and try to rip it open with his hind paws. Isuppose that was the way his tiger ancestors ripped open their prey.He would carry the cork, attached to the post at the foot of thestaircase, as far up the stairs as the string would allow him, lay itdown and touch it gently to make it roll down the stairs so that hecould spring after it and catch it before it reached the bottom. All thiswas most satisfactory. That was what I expected a cat to do.

He lapped his milk all right. I did not know what else to give him. Iasked Amelie what she gave hers. She said "soup made out of breadand drippings." That was a new idea. But Amelie's cats looked allright. So I made the same kind of soup for Khaki. Not he! He turnedhis back on it. Then Amelie suggested bread in his milk. I tried that.He lapped the milk, but left the bread. I was rather in despair. Helooked too thin. Amelie suggested that he was a thin kind of a cat. Idid not want a thin kind of a cat. I wanted a roly-poly cat.

One day I was eating a dry biscuit at tea time. He came and stoodbeside me, and I offered him a piece. He accepted it. So, after that, Igave him biscuit and milk. He used to sit beside his saucer, lap up hismilk, and then pick up the pieces of biscuit with his paw and eat them.This got to be his first show trick. Everyone came to see Khaki eat"with his fingers."

All Amelie's efforts to induce him to adopt the diet of all the other catsin Huiry failed. Finally I said: "What does he want, Amelie? What docats, who will not eat soup, eat?"

Reluctantly I got it--"Liver."

Well, I should think he did. He eats it twice a day.

Up to that time he had never talked even cat language. He had nevermeowed since the day he presented himself at Amelie's and askedfor sanctuary.

But we have had, from the beginning, a few collisions of will-power.The first few weeks that he was a guest in my house, I was terriblyflattered because he never wanted to sleep anywhere but on myknees. He did not squirm round as Amelie said kittens usually did. Henever climbed on my shoulders and rubbed against my face. Hesimply jumped up in my lap, turned round once, lay down, and layperfectly still. If I got up, I had to put him in my chair, soothe hima bit, as you would a baby, if I expected him to stay, but, even then,nine times out of ten, as soon as I was settled in another chair,he followed, and climbed into my lap.

Now things that are flattering finally pall. I began to guess that it washis comfort, not his love for me, that controlled him. Well--it is the oldstory.

But the night question was the hardest. He had a basket. He had acushion. I have the country habit of going to bed with the chickens.The cat came near changing all that. I used to let him go to sleep inmy lap. I used to put him in his basket by the table with all the carethat you would put a baby. Then I made a dash for upstairs andclosed the doors. Ha! ha! In two minutes he was scratching at thedoor. I let him scratch. "He must be disciplined," I said. There was acushion at the door, and finally he would settle' down and in themorning he was there when I woke. "He will learn," I said. H'm!

One night, while I was in my dressing-room, I neglected to latch thebedroom door. When I was ready to get into bed, lo! there was Khakion the foot of the bed, close against the footboard, fast asleep. Notonly was he asleep, but he was lying on his back, with his two whitepaws folded over his eyes as if to keep the lamplight out of them.Well--I had not the heart to drive him away. He had won. He sleptthere. He never budged until I was dressed in the morning, when hegot up, as if it were the usual thing, and followed, in his most dignifiedmanner, down to breakfast.

Well, that was struggle number one. Khaki had scored.

But, no sooner had I got myself reconciled--I felt pretty shamefaced--when he changed his plans. The very moment I was ready for bed hewanted to go out. He never meowed. He just tapped at the door, andif that did not succeed, he scratched on the window, and he was soone-idea-ed that nothing turned him from his purpose until he was letout.

For a time I used to sit up for him to come in. I was ashamed to letAmelie know. But, one night, after I had been out in the garden with alantern hunting for him at midnight, I heard a gentle purring sound,and, after looking in every direction, I finally located him on the roof ofthe kitchen. Being a bit dull, I imagined that he could not get down. Istood up on a bench under the kitchen window, and called him. Hecame to the eaves, and I could just reach him, but, as I was about totake him by a leg and haul him down, he retreated just out of myreach, and said what I imagined to be a pathetic "meow." I talked tohim. I tried to coax him to come within reach again, but he only wentup the roof to the ridgepole and looked down the other side and said"meow." I was in despair, when it occurred to me to get the step-ladder. You may think me impossibly silly, but I never supposed thathe could get down.

I went for the key to the grange, pulled out the ladder, and hauled italong the terrace, and was just putting it up, when the little devilleaped from the roof into the lilac bush, swayed there a minute, randown, scampered across the garden, and dashed up a pear tree,and--well, I think he laughed at me.

Anyway, I was mad. I went in and told him that he might stop out allnight for all I cared. Still, I could not sleep for thinking of him--usedto comfort--out in the night, and it was chilly. But he had to bedisciplined.

I had to laugh in the morning, for he was playing on the terrace whenI opened the door, and he had a line of three first-class mice laid outfor me. I said: "Why, good morning, Khaki, did mother make him stayout all night? Well, you know he was a naughty cat!"

He gave me a look--I fancied it was quizzical--rolled over, andshowed his pretty white belly, then jumped up, gave one look up atthe bedroom window, scampered up the salon shutter, crouched onthe top, and, with one leap, was through the bedroom window. WhenI rushed upstairs--to see if he had hurt himself, I suppose,--he wassitting on the foot of the bed, and I think he was grinning.

So much for disciplining a cat.

However, I had learned something--and, evidently, he had also. I hadlearned that a cat can take care of himself, and has a right to live acat's life, and he learned that I was dull. We treat each otheraccordingly. The truth is--he owns me, and the house, and he knowsit.

Since then he asks for the door, and gets it when he asks. He goesand comes at his own sweet will. When he wants to come in, in thedaytime, he looks in at all the windows until he finds me. Then hestands on his hind legs and beats the window with his paws until Iopen it for him. In the night, he climbs to the bedroom window, andtaps until he wakens me. You see, it is his house, not mine, and heknows it. What is the drollest of all--he is never one minute late to hismeals.

He is familiarly known to all my neighbors as "the Grand Duc deHuiry" and he looks the part. Still, from my point of view, he is not anideal cat. He is not a bit caressing. He never fails to purr politely whenhe comes in. But he is no longer playful. He never climbs up to myshoulder and rubs against my face as some of Amelie's commonercats will do. He is intelligent and handsome--just a miniature tiger,and growls like a new arrival from the jungle when he is displeased--and he is a great ratter. Moreover Amelie has decided that he is an"intellectuel."

One morning, when he had been out all night, and did not return untilalmost breakfast-time, he was sitting on my knee, making his toilette,while I argued the matter with him. Amelie was dusting. I reproachedhim with becoming a rodeur, and I told him that I should be happierabout him if I knew where he was every night, and what he did.

He yawned as if bored, jumped off my knees and began walkinground the library, and examining the books.

"Well," remarked Amelie, "I can tell you where he goes. He has aclass in Maria's grange, where the wheat is stored--a class of mice.He goes every evening to give conferences on history and the war,and he eats up all the stupid pupils."

I had to laugh, but before I could ask her how she knew, Khakijumped up on top of the lowest line of books, and disappearedbehind.

Amelie shrugged her shoulders, and said: "Voila! He has gone toprepare his next conference." And he really had chosen a line ofbooks on history.

You see Amelie knows beasties better than I do. There really is a sortof freemasonry between certain people and dumb animals. I have nota bit of it, though I love them. You would adore to see Amelie playwith cats. She knows how. And as for her conversation with them, it iswonderful. I remarked the fact to her one day, when her morningsalutations with the cats had been unusual. She replied, with hercustomary shrug: "Eh bien, Madame, toujours, entre eux, les betesse comprennent."

So much in brief for cat number one. Number two is a differentmatter.

In the spring, four kittens were born at Amelie's. They were all sorts ofmongrels. There was a dear little fluffy, half angora, which I namedGaribaldi, and Amelie, as usual, vulgarized it at once into "Didine."There was a long-legged blue kitten which I dubbed Roi Albert. Therewas a short-legged, sturdy little energetic striped one which I calledGeneral Joffre, and a yellow and black fellow, who was, of course,Nicolas. I regretted there weren't two more, or three.

Garibaldi was about the dearest kitten I ever saw. He attachedhimself to me at once. When he was only a round fluffy ball he wouldtry to climb into my lap whenever I went to see the kittens. The resultwas that when he was still very young, he came to live with me, and Inever saw so altogether loveable an animal. He has all the catqualities I ever dreamed of. As Amelie says: "II a tout pour lui, et il nemanque que la parole." And it is true. He crawls up my back. He willlie for hours on my shoulder purring his little soft song into my ear. Hewill sit beside me on my desk, looking at me with his pretty yelloweyes, as if he and I were the whole of his world. If I walk in thegarden, he is under my feet. If I go up to Amelie's he goes too.

His attachment has its drawbacks. He tries to sit on my book when Iam reading, and longs to lie on the keyboard of my machine when Iam writing. If I try to read a paper when he is on my lap heimmediately crawls under it, and gets between my eyes and the print.I am terribly flattered, but his affection has its inconveniences.Needless to say, Khaki hates him, and never passes him withoutgrowling. Luckily Didine is not a bit afraid of him. Up to date they havenever fought. Didine has a great admiration for Khaki, and will taghim. The difference in their characters is too funny. For example, ifDidine brings a mouse into the garden Khaki never attempts to touchit. He will sit apart, indulgently watching Didine play with his prey,torment it, and finally kill it, and never offer to join in the sport. Onthe contrary, if Khaki brings in a mouse, Didine wants to join in the funat once. Result--Khaki gives one fierce growl, abandons his catchand goes out of the garden. Difference, I suppose, between athoroughbred sport and, well, a common cat.

I could fill a volume with stories about these cats. Don't worry. I shallnot.

You ask me if I have a dog. Yes, a big black Caniche named Dick, agood watch-dog, but too fond of playing. I call him an "india-rubberdog," because when he is demanding' a frolic, or asking to have astone thrown for him--his idea of happiness--he jumps up and downon his four stiff legs exactly like a toy woolly dog on an elastic.

He is a good dog to walk with, and loves to "go." He is very obedienton the road for that reason--knows if he is naughty he can't go nexttime.

So now you have the household complete. I'll warrant you won't becontent. If you are not, there is no satisfying you. When I pour all mypolitical dreams on paper, and shout on to my machine all mydisappointments over the attitude of Washington, you take offence.So what can I do? I cannot send you letters full of stirring adventures.I don't have any. I can't write you dramatic things about the war. It isnot dramatic here, and that is as strange to me as it seems to be toyou.

XVII

October 3, 1915

We have been as near to getting enthusiastically excited as we havesince the war began.

Just when everyone had a mind made up that the Allies could not beready to make their first offensive movement until next spring--resigned to know that it would not be until after a year and a half, andmore, of war that we could see our armies in a position to do morethan continue to repel the attacks of the enemy--we all waked up onSeptember 27 to the unexpected news that an offensive movementof the French in Champagne had actually begun on the 25th, andwas successful.

For three or four days the suspense and the hope alternated. Everyday there was an advance, an advance that seemed to be supportedby the English about Loos, and all the time we heard at intervals thefar-off pounding of the artillery.

For several days our hearts were high. Then there began to creepinto the papers hints that it had been a gallant advance, but not agreat victory, and far too costly, and that there had been blunders,and we all settled back with the usual philosophy, studied the map ofour first-line trenches on September 25, when the attack began,--running through Souain and Perthes, Mesnil, Massiges, and Ville surTourbe. We compared it with the line on the night of September 29,when the battle practically ended, running from the outskirts ofAuderive in the west to behind Cernay in the east, and took whatcomfort we could in the 25 kilometres of advance, and three hilltopsgained. It looked but a few steps on the map, but it was a few stepsnearer the frontier.

Long before you get this, you will have read, in the American papers,details hidden from us, though we know more about this event thanabout most battles.

You remember the tea-party I had for the boys in our ambulance inJune? Well, among the soldiers here that day was a chap namedLitigue. He was wounded--his second time--on September 25, thefirst day of the battle. He was nursed in our ambulance the first timeby Mlle. Henriette, and yesterday she had a letter from him, which shelets me translate for you, because it will give you some idea of thebattle, of the spirit of the poilus, and also because it contains a bit ofnews and answers a question you asked me several weeks ago,after the first use of gas attacks in the north.

A l'hopital St. Andre de Luhzac,

September 30, 1915 Mademoiselle,

I am writing you tonight a little more at length than I was able to dothis morning--then I had not the time, as my nurse was waiting besidemy bed to take the card to the post. I wrote it the moment I was able,at the same time that I wrote to my family. I hope it reached you.

I am going to tell you in as few words as possible, how the daypassed. The attack began the 25th, at exactly quarter past nine in themorning. The preparatory bombardment had been going on since the22d. All the regiments had been assembled the night before in theirshelters, ready to leap forward.

At daybreak the bombardment recommenced--a terrible storm ofshells of every calibre--bombs, torpedoes--flew overhead to salutethe Boches, and to complete the destruction which had been goingon for three days.

Without paying attention to the few obus which the Boches sent overin reply to our storm, we all mounted the parapets to get a view of thescene. All along our front, in both directions, all we could see was athick cloud of dust and smoke. For four hours we stood there, withoutsaying a word, waiting the order to advance; officers, commonsoldiers, young and old, had but one thought,--to get into it and bedone with it as quickly as possible. It was just nine o'clock when theofficers ordered us into line, ready to advance,--sac au dos, bayonetsfixed, musettes full of grenades and asphyxiating bombs. Everyone ofus knew that he was facing death out there, but I saw nowhere thesmallest sign of shrinking, and at quarter past nine, when we got thesignal to start, one cry: "En avant, et vive la France!" burst fromthousands and thousands of throats, as we leaped out of thetrenches, and it seemed to me that it was but one bound before wewere on them.

Once there I seem to remember nothing in detail. It was as if, byenchantment, that I found myself in the midst of the struggle, in heapsof dead and dying. When I fell, and found myself useless in the fight, Idragged myself, on my stomach, towards our trenches. I metstretcher-bearers who were willing to carry me, but I was able tocrawl, and so many of my comrades were worse off, that I refused. Icrept two kilometres like that until I found a dressing-station. I wassuffering terribly with the bullet in my ankle. They extracted it thereand dressed the ankle, but I remained, stretched on the ground, twodays before I was removed, and I had nothing to eat until I reachedhere yesterday--four days after I fell. But that could not be helped.There were so many to attend to.

I will let you know how I get on, and I hope for news from you. In themeantime I send you my kindest regards, and my deep gratitude.

Your big friend,

LlTIGUE, A.

I thought you might be interested to see what sort of a letter a realpoilu writes, and Litigue is just a big workman, young and energetic.

You remember you asked me if the Allies would ever bringthemselves to replying in sort to the gas attacks. You see what Litiguesays so simply. They did have asphyxiating bombs. Naturally themost honorable army in the world cannot neglect to reply in sort to aweapon like that. When the Boches have taken some of their ownmedicine the weapon will be less freely used. Besides, today our menare all protected against gas.

I had hardly settled down to the feeling that the offensive was overand that there was another long winter of inaction--a winter of thesame physical and material discomforts as the first--lack of fuel,suspense,--when the news came which makes my feeling verypersonal. The British offensive in the north has cost me a dear friend.You remember the young English officer who had marched aroundme in September of last year, during the days preceding the battle ofthe Marne? He was killed in Belgium on the morning of September26--the second day of the offensive. He was in command of an anti-aeroplane battery advanced in the night to what was considered awell-concealed position. The German guns, however, got the range.Shrapnel nearly wiped out the command, and the Captain waswounded in the head. He died at the hospital at Etaples half an hourafter he arrived, and lies buried in the English cemetery on the dunes,with his face towards the country for which he gave his young life.

I know one must not today regret such sacrifices. Death is--and noone can die better than actively for a great cause. But, when a lovedone goes out in youth; when a career of achievement before which areally brilliant future opened, is snapped, one can still be proud, but itis through a veil of tears.

I remember so well that Sunday morning, the 26th of September. Itwas a beautiful day. The air was clear. The sun shone. I sat all themorning on the lawn watching the clouds, so small and fleecy, andlistening to the far-off cannon, not knowing then that it meant the "bigoffensive." Oddly enough we spoke of him, for Amelie was examiningthe cherry tree, which she imagined had some sort of malady, andshe said: "Do you remember when Captain Noel was here last yearhow he climbed the tree to pick the cherries?" And I replied that thetree hardly looked solid enough now to bear his weight. I sat thinkingof him, and his life of movement and activity under so many climes,and wondered where he was, little thinking that already, that verymorning, the sun of his dear life was told, and that we should never,as I had dreamed, talk over his adventures in France as we had sooften talked over those in India, in China, and in Africa.

It is odd, but when a friend so dear as he was, yet whom one onlysaw rarely, in the etapes of his active career, goes out across thegreat bourne, into the silence and the invisible, it takes time to realizeit. It is only after a long waiting, when not even a message comesback, that one comprehends that there are to be no more meetingsat the cross-roads. I moved one more portrait into the line under theflags tied with black--that was all.

You hardly knew him, I know, but no one ever saw his upright figure,his thin, clear-cut features, bronzed by tropic suns, and his directgaze, and forgot him.

XVIII

December 6, 1915

It is two months since I wrote--I know it. But you really must notreproach me so violently as you do in yours of the 21st of November,just received.

To begin with, there is no occasion for you to worry. I may beuncomfortable. I am in no danger. As for the discomforts--well, I amused to them. I cannot get coal very often, and when I do I paytwenty-six dollars a ton for it, and it is only imitation coal, at that. Icannot get washing done oftener than once in six weeks. Nothingdries out-of-doors in this country of damp winters. I am often forced tolive my evenings by candle-light, which is pretty extravagant, ascandles are costly, and it takes a good many to get through anevening. They burn down like paper tapers in these days.

When I don't write it is simply because I have nothing moreinteresting than things like that to tell you. The situation is chronic,and, like chronic diseases, much more likely to get worse than to getbetter.

You should be grateful to me for sparing you, instead of blaming me.

I might not have found the inspiration to write today if something hadnot happened.

This morning the town crier beat his drum all over the hill, and read aproclamation forbidding all foreigners to leave the commune duringthe next thirty days without a special permit from the general incommand of the 5th Army Corps.

No one knows what this means. I have been to the mairie to enquiresimply because I had promised to spend Christmas at Voulangis,and, if this order is formal, I may have difficulty in going. I have nodesire to celebrate, only there is a child there, and the lives of littlechildren ought not to be too much saddened by the times and eventsthey do not understand.

I was told at the mairie that they had no power, and that I would haveto address myself to Monsieur le General. They could not even tellme what form the request ought to take. So I came home, and wrotethe letter as well as I could.

In the meantime, I am distinctly informed that until I get a reply fromheadquarters I cannot go out of the commune of Quincy-Segy.

If I really obey the letter of this order I cannot even go to Amelie's. Herhouse is in the commune of Couilly, and mine in Quincy, and theboundary line between the two communes is the path beside mygarden, on the south side, and runs up the middle of my road fromthat point.

It is annoying, as I hardly know Quincy, and don't care for it, andnever go there except to present myself at the mairie. It is further offthe railroad line than I am here. Couilly I know and like. It is a prettyprosperous village. It has better shops than Quincy, which has noteven a pharmacie, and I have always done my shopping there. Mymail comes there, and the railway station is there, and everyoneknows me.

The idea that I can't go there gives me, for the first time since thebattle, a shut-in feeling. I talked to the garde champetre, whom I meton the road, as I returned from the mairie, and I asked him what hethought about the risk of my going to Couilly. He looked properlygrave, and said:

"I would not, if I were in your place. Better run no risks until weunderstand what this is to lead to."

I thanked him, with an expression just as serious and important ashis. "I'll obey," I said to myself, "though to obey will be comic."

So I turned the corner on top of the hill. I drove close to the east sideof the road, which was the Quincy side, and as I passed the entranceto Amelie's court I called to Pere to come out and get Ninette and thecart. I then climbed out and left the turn-out there.

I did not look back, but I knew Pere was standing in the road lookingafter me in amazement, and not understanding a bit that I had left mycart on the Quincy side of the road for him to drive it into Couilly,where I could not go.

"I'll obey," I repeated to myself, viciously, as I strolled down theQuincy side of the road and crossed in front of the gate where thewhole width of the road is in my commune.

I hadn't been in the house five minutes before Amelie arrived.

"What's the matter?" she demanded, breathlessly.

"Nothing."

"Why didn't you drive into the stable as usual?"

"I couldn't."

"Why couldn't you?"

"Because I am forbidden to go to Couilly."

I thought she was going to see the joke and laugh. She didn't. Shewas angry, and I had a hard time to make her see that it was funny.In fact, I did not really make her see it at all, for an hour later,wanting her, I went up to the Quincy side of the road, leaned againstthe wall, opposite her entrance, and blew my big whistle for tenminutes without attracting her attention.

That attempt at renewing the joke had two results. I must tell you thatone of the few friends who has ever been out here felt that the onlyannoying thing about my being so absolutely alone was that, ifanything happened and I needed help, I had no way of letting anyoneknow. So I promised, and it was agreed with Amelie, that, in need, Ishould blow my big whistle--it can be heard half a mile. But that wasover two years ago. I have never needed help. I have used thewhistle to call Dick.

I whistled and whistled and whistled until I was good and mad. Then Ibegan to yell: "Amelie--Melie--Pere!" and they came running out,looking frightened to death, to find me, red in the face, leaning againstthe wall--on the Quincy side of the road.

"What's the matter?" cried Amelie.

"Didn't you hear my whistle?" I asked.

"We thought you were calling Dick."

The joke was on me.

When I explained that I wanted some fresh bread to toast and wasnot allowed to go to their house in Couilly for it, it ceased to be a jokeat all.

It was useless for me to laugh, and to explain that an order was anorder, and that Couilly was Couilly, whether it was at my gate or downthe hill.

Pere's anger was funnier than my joke. He saw nothing comic in thesituation. To him it was absurd. Monsieur le General, commandant dela cinquieme armee ought to know that I was all right. If he didn'tknow it, it was high time someone told him.

In his gentle old voice he made quite a harangue.

All Frenchmen can make harangues.

It was difficult for me to convince him that I was not in the slightestdegree annoyed; that I thought it was amusing; that there wasnothing personally directed against me in the order; that I was onlyone of many foreigners inside the zone des armees; that the only wayto catch the dangerous ones was to forbid us all to circulate.

I might have spared myself the breath it took to argue with him. If Iever thought I could change the conviction of a French peasant, Idon't think so since I have lived among them. I spent several dayslast summer trying to convince Pere that the sun did not go round theearth. I drew charts of the heavens,--you should have seen them--and explained the solar system. He listened attentively--one has tolisten when the patronne talks, you know--and I thought heunderstood. When it was all over--it took me three days--he said tome:

"Bien. All the same, look at the sun. This morning it was behindMaria's house over there. I saw it. At noon it was right over myorchard. I saw it there. At five o'clock it will be behind the hill atEsbly. You tell me it does not move! Why, I see it move every day.Alors--it moves."

I gave it up. All my lovely exposition of us rolling through space hadmissed. So there is no hope of my convincing him that this newregulation regarding foreigners is not designed expressly to annoyme.

I often wonder exactly what all this war means to him. He reads hisnewspaper religiously. He seems to understand. He talks very wellabout it. But he is detached in a way. He hates it. It has aged himterribly. But just what it means to him I can't know.

XIX

Christmas Day, 1915

Well, here I am, alone, on my second war Christmas! All my efforts toget a permis de sortir failed.

Ten days after I wrote you last, there was a rumor that all foreignerswere to be expelled from the zone of military operations. My friends inParis began to urge me to close up the house and go into town,where I could at least be comfortable.

I simply cannot. I am accustomed now to living alone. I am not fit tolive among active people. If I leave my house, which needs constantcare, it will get into a terrible condition, and, once out of it, there isno knowing what difficulty I might have to get back. The future is allso uncertain. Besides, I really want to see the thing out right here.

I made two efforts to get a permission to go to Voulangis. It is onlyfive miles away. I wrote to the commander of the 5th Army Corpstwice. I got no answer. Then I was told that I could not hope to reachhim with a personal letter--that I must communicate with him throughthe civil authorities. I made a desperate effort. I decided to dare theregulations and appeal to the commander of the gendarmes at Esbly.

There I had a queer interview--at first very discreet and verymisleading, so far as they were concerned. In the end, however, Ihad the pleasure of seeing my two letters to Monsieur le Generalattached to a long sheet of paper, full of writing,--my dossier, theycalled it. They did not deign to tell me why my letters, sent to the armyheadquarters, had been filed at the gendarmerie. I suppose that wasnone of my business. Nor did they let me see what was written on thelong sheet to which the letters were attached. Finally, they did stoopto tell me that a gendarme had been to the mairie regarding my case,and that if I would present myself at Quincy the next morning, I wouldfind a petition covering my demand awaiting my signature. It will betoo late to serve the purpose for which it was asked, but I'll take it forParis, if I can get it.

For lack of other company I invited Khaki to breakfast with me today.He didn't promise formally to come--but he was there. By devotingmyself to him he behaved very well indeed, and did not disturb thetable decorations. Luckily, they were not good to eat. He sat in a chairbeside me, and now and then I had to pardon him for putting hiselbow on the table. I did that the more graciously as I was surprisedthat he did not sit on it. He had his own fork, and except that, now andthen, he got impatient and reached out a white paw to take a bit ofchicken from my fork just before it reached my mouth, he committedno grave breach of table manners. He did refuse to keep his bib on,and he ate more than I did, and enjoyed the meal better. In fact, Ishould not have enjoyed it at all but for him. He had a gorgeous time.

I did not invite Garibaldi. He did not know anything about it. He is tooyoung to enjoy a "function." He played in the garden during the meal,happy and content to have a huge breakfast of bread and gravy; heis a bread eater--thoroughly French.

I even went so far as to dress for Khaki, and put a Christmas rose inmy hair. Alas! It was all wasted on him.

This is all the news I have to send you, and I cannot even send ahopeful message for 1916. The end looks farther off for me than it didat the beginning of the year. It seems to me that the world is only nowbeginning to realize what it is up against.

XX

January 23, 1916

Well, I have really been to Paris, and it was so difficult that I askmyself why I troubled.

I had to await the pleasure of the commander of the CinquiemeArmee, as the Embassy was powerless to help me, although they didtheir best with great good will. I enclose you my sauf-conduit that youmay see what so important a document is like. Then I want to tell youthe funny thing--/ never had to show it once. I was very curious toknow just how important it was. I went by the way of Esbly. On buyingmy ticket I expected to be asked for it, as there was a printed noticebeside the window to the ticket-office announcing that all purchasersof tickets must be furnished with a sauf-conduit. No one cared to seemine. No one asked for it on the train. No one demanded it at the exitin Paris. Nor, when I returned, did anyone ask for it either at theticket-office in Paris or at the entrance to the train. Considering that Ihad waited weeks for it, had to ask for it three times, had to explainwhat I was going to do in Paris, where I was going to stay, how long,etc., I had to be amused.

I was really terribly disappointed. I had longed to show it. It seemedso chic to travel with the consent of a big general.

Of course, if I had attempted to go without it, I should have riskedgetting caught, as, at any time, the train was liable to be boarded andall papers examined.

I learned at the Embassy, where the military attache had consultedthe Ministry of War, that an arrangement was to be made laterregarding foreigners, and that we were to be provided with a specialbook which, while it would not allow us to circulate freely, would giveus the right to demand a permission--and get it if the militaryauthorities chose. No great change that.

The visit served little purpose except to show me a sad-looking Parisand make me rejoice to get back.

Now that the days are so short, and it is dark at four o'clock, Paris isalmost unrecognizable. With shop-shutters closed, tramway windowscurtained, very few street-lights--none at all on short streets--novisible lights in houses, the city looks dead. You 'd have to see it torealize what it is like.

The weather was dull, damp, the cold penetrating, and theatmosphere depressing, and so was the conversation. It is betterhere on the hilltop, even though, now and then, we hear the guns.

Coming back from Paris there were almost no lights on the platformsat the railway stations, and all the coaches had their curtains drawn.At the station at Esbly the same situation--a few lights, very low, onthe main platform, and absolutely none on the platform where I tookthe narrow-gauge for Couilly. I went stumbling, in absolute blackness,across the main track, and literally felt my way along the little train tofind a door to my coach. If it had not been for the one lamp on mylittle cart waiting in the road, I could not have seen where the exit atCouilly was. It was not gay, and it was far from gay climbing the longhill, with the feeble rays of that one lamp to light the blackness.Luckily Ninette knows the road in the dark.

In the early days of the war it used to be amusing in the train, aseveryone talked, and the talk was good. Those days are passed.With the now famous order pasted on every window:

Taisez-vous! Mefiez-vous.Les oreilles ennemies vous ecoutent

no one says a word. I came back from Paris with half a dozen officersin the compartment. Each one, as he entered, brought his hand tosalute, and sat down, without a word. They did not even look at oneanother. It is one of the most marked changes in attitude that I haveseen since the war. It is right. We were all getting too talkative, but ittakes away the one charm there was in going to Paris. I've had noadventures since I wrote to you Christmas Day, although we didhave, a few days after that, five minutes of excitement.

One day I was walking in the garden. It was a fairly bright day, andthe sun was shining through the winter haze. I had been counting mytulips, which were coming up bravely, admiring my yellow crocuses,already in flower, and hoping the sap would not begin to rise in therose bushes, and watching the Marne, once more lying like a searather than a river over the fields, and wondering how that awfulwinter freshet was going to affect the battle-front, when, suddenly,there was a terrible explosion. It nearly shook me off my feet.

The letter-carrier from Quincy was just mounting the hill on his wheel,and he promptly tumbled off it. I happened to be standing where Icould see over the hedge, but before I could get out the stupidquestion, "What was that?" there came a second explosion, then athird and a fourth.

They sounded in the direction of Paris.

"Zeppelins," was my first thought, but that was hardly the hour forthem.

I stood rooted to the spot. I could hear voices at Voisins, as if all theworld had rushed into the street. Then I saw Amelie running down thehill. She said nothing as she passed. The postman picked himself up,passed me a letter, shrugged his shoulders, and pushed his wheel upthe hill.

I patiently waited until the voices ceased in Voisins. I could see nosmoke anywhere. Amelie came back at once, but she brought noexplanation. She only brought a funny story.

There is an old woman in Voisins, well on to ninety, called Mere R---.The war is too tremendous for her localized mind to grasp. Out ofthe confusion she picks and clings to certain isolated facts. At the firstexplosion, she rushed, terrorized, into the street, gazing up to theheavens, and shaking her withered old fists above her head, shecried in her shrill, quavering voice: "Now look at that! They told us theKaiser was dying. It's a lie. It's a lie, you see, for here he comesthrowing his cursed bombs down on us."

You know all this month the papers have had Guillaume dying of thatever-recurring cancer of the throat. I suppose the old woman thinksGuillaume is carrying all this war on in person. In a certain sense sheis not very far wrong.

For a whole week we got no explanation of that five minutes'excitement. Then it leaked out that the officer of the General Staff,who has been stationed at the Chateau de Conde, halfway betweenhere and Esbly, was about to change his section. He had, in the parkthere, four German shells from the Marne battlefield, which had notbeen exploded. He did not want to take them with him, and it wasequally dangerous to leave them in the park, so he decided toexplode them, and had not thought it necessary to warn anybody butthe railroad people.

It is a proof of how simple our life is that such an event madeconversation for weeks.

XXI

February 16, 1916

Well, we are beginning to get a little light--we foreigners--on oursituation. On February 2, I was ordered to present myself again at themairie. I obeyed the summons the next morning, and was told thatthe military authorities were to provide all foreigners inside the zonedes armees, and all foreigners outside, who, for any reason, neededto enter the zone, with what is called a "carnet d'etrangere," and that,once I got that, I would have the privilege of asking for a permissionto circulate, but, until that document was ready, I must be content notto leave my commune, nor to ask for any sort of a sauf-conduit.

I understand that this regulation applies even to the doctors andinfirmieres, and ambulance drivers of all the American units at work inFrance. I naturally imagine that some temporary provision must bemade for them in the interim.

I had to make a formal petition for this famous carnet, and to furnishthe military authorities with two photographs--front view,--size andform prescribed.

I looked at the mayor's secretary and asked him how the Old Scratch--I said frankly diable--I was to get photographed when he hadforbidden me to leave my commune, and knew as well as I that therewas no photographer here.

Quite seriously he wrote me a special permit to go to Couilly wherethere is a man who can photograph. He wrote on it that it was goodfor one day, and the purpose of the trip "to be photographed by theorder of the mayor in order to get my carnet d'etrangere," and hesolemnly presented it to me, without the faintest suspicion that it washumorous.

Between you and me, I did not even use it. I had still one of thephotographs made for my passport and other papers. Amelie carriedit to Couilly and had it copied. Very few people would recognize me byit. It is the counterfeit presentment of a smiling, fat old lady, but it isabsolutely reglementaire in size and form, and so will pass muster. Ihave seen some pretty queer portraits on civil papers.

We are promised these carnets in the course of "a few weeks," so,until then, you can think of me as, to all intents and purposes, reallyinterned.

It may interest you to know that on the 9th,--just a week ago--aZeppelin nearly got to Meaux. It was about half past eleven in theevening when the drums beat "lights out," along the hillside. Thereweren't many to put out, for everyone is in bed at that hour, and wehave no street-lights, but an order is an order. The only result of thedrum was to call everyone out of bed, in the hope "to see a Zeppelin."We neither heard nor saw anything.

Amelie said with a grin next morning, "Eh, bien, only one thing isneeded to complete our experiences--that a bomb should fall shy ofits aim--the railroad down there--and wipe Huiry off the map, and writeit in history."

I am sorry that you find holes in my letters. It is your own fault. You donot see this war from my point of view yet--alas! But you will. Make anote of that. The thing that you will not understand, living, as you do,in a world going about its daily routine, out of sight, out of hearing ofall this horror, is that Germany's wilful destruction is on apreconceived plan--a racial principle. The more races she can reduceand enfeeble the more room there will be for her. Germany wantsBelgium--but she wants as few Belgians as possible. So with Poland,and Servia, and northeast France. She wants them to die out as fastas possible. It is a part of the programme of a people callingthemselves the elect of the world--the only race, in their opinion,which ought to survive.

She had a forty-four years' start of the rest of the world in preparingher programme. It is not in two years, or in three, that the rest of theworld can overtake her. That advantage is going to carry her a longway. Some people still believe that advantage will exist to the end. Idon't. Still, one of the overwhelming facts of this war is to me that:Germany held Belgium and northeast France at the end of 1914, andyet, all along the Allied fronts, with Germany fighting on invadedterritory, they cried: "She is beaten!" So, indeed, her strategy was. Atthe end of 1915 she had two new allies, and held all of Servia,Montenegro, and Russian Poland, and still the Allies persisted: "Sheis licked, but she does not know it yet." It is one of the finest proofs ofthe world's faith in the triumph of the Right that so many believe thisto be true.

You are going to come some day to the opinion I hold--that if we wantuniversai peace we must first get rid of the race that does not want itor believe in it. Forbidden subject? I know. But when I resisttemptation you find holes in my letters, and seem to imagine that I am